


Paths Crossed

by Akikofuma



Series: Witcher Prompts [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Meeting, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt gets hurt and Jaskier saves him, Geralt is grumpy, M/M, Prompt Fic, Roach is mentioned, Sort Of Fluff, Sort of AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27150148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: “You don’t look strong enough to have carried me that far.”“Excuse me!” Jaskier replied, quite ruffled by the Witchers statement. “I may not be as freakishly muscled as you are, Geralt, but that doesn’t mean I’m not perfectly capable of helping you.”“Didn’t say you weren’t capable of helping.” Geralt replied between bites of the food he’d been served. “Just that you don’t look strong enough to carry me a long distance.”_________Or: Instead of meeting in Posada, Jaskier (fresh out of Oxenfurt Academy) comes across an injured Geralt in the woods.Another prompt for the lovely @doberainbow <3
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955077
Comments: 35
Kudos: 333





	Paths Crossed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doberainbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doberainbow/gifts).



Geralt was neck deep in shit.

Not literally, thankfully. At least this time.

He’d just slain a particularly nasty fiend, the beasts corpse laying only a few feet away from him. He remembered Vesemir reading out loud the section about fiends from the beastiary, back when he’d been a boy.

    _Fiends are walking mountains of muscle capped with horned, tooth-filled heads. Like their rarer cousins, bumbakvetches, they live in thick forests, swamps and bogs. When possible they avoid humans, but when not possible, they kill them, and without much difficulty._
    
    _Their size alone makes fiends and bumbakvetches extremely dangerous – one blow from their powerful paws can kill a knight along with it's fully armored mount. Their enormous heft also makes them invulnerable to Aard: even witchers specializing in the power of Signs could not move one even an inch. Furthermore, any wounds they receive heal at lightning speed._
    
    _If that weren't trouble enough, fiends need not rely on their strength and stamina alone with fighting. They can also call on a more refined weapon: the third eye located in the center of their forehead, which they use to draw their prey into a state of hypnosis. During these times their victim does not see anything beyond this single burning eye – the last thing they see before their death._
    
    _A fiend's only weakness is its fear of loud noises – bombs such as Samum or Devil's Puffball are thus quite effective when fighting this monster. Furthermore, a blade covered in relict oil can increase a witcher's chances of victory – or at least of walking away from the fight._
    
    
    Geralt doubted he’d be walking away from this fight any time soon; if at all. He’d downed both Swallow potions before the fight had ended. They were working, but not well enough. Blood was flowing freely from the gash on his side, flesh ripped by the fiends claws. It wasn’t the only injury he’d sustained, but by far the most deadly. Roach he’d left behind at the stables, fearing she’d get hurt. His trusted, much loved mare couldn’t outrun a beast of this size.
    
    Grateful for his foresight, knowing she’d live another day, Geralt dragged himself towards the closest tree on his arms and legs. If he had to die, he refused to do it lying in the dirt. So he’d go and prop himself up against the wood, at least until he was sitting up, and wait.
    
    Either for the potions to save him, or..
    
    “Hello?”
    
    

* * *

    
    Jaskier had been told, time and time again, that he was an idiot.
    
    His parents, his siblings, even those he considered to be his friends; at some point, sooner or later, they’d all called him that.
    
    An idiot.
    
    Too eager to rush into danger, never thinking about the consequences; so ready to find adventure he simply forgot to consider what would happen once he had actually found one.
    
    His father had predicted he’d be dead before he saw his 20th winter. Was, in fact, so sure of his sons uselessness, he hadn’t balked when Jaskier had asked to be sent to Oxenfurt to become a bard. A silly, unworthy pursuit for a noblemen of any kind, he’d said time and time again.
    
    But in his mind, Jaskier- Julian, really, to his father – was an idiot. He wouldn’t live long enough to bring shame to the family, and the fees of studying in Oxenfurt were inconsequential to someone as wealthy as him.
    
    So, Jaskier had gone to Oxenfurt, had excelled at every class, every exam, anything his professors placed before him. He loved music almost as much as he loved the idea of exploring the world, finding new places and seeing strange, new things.
    
    “ _Let him go”_ His father had said, when his mother protested at the idea of sending her youngest away. _“Let him see the world he wants so desperately to discover. Perhaps he’ll return with more sense to him.”_
    
    Well, he’d proven his father wrong with great delight.
    
    18 years old, and now a bard by all rights, graduated from the prestigious Oxenfurt Academy, he still very much sought adventure, excitement; anything but the dull life of a noble in Lettenhove.
    
    So when his sister had whispered to him about a Witcher, hunting down some beast in the forest at his fathers behest, _well_. How was he supposed to resist?
    
    That is what had brought him into the woods, lured in by the noise of battle, the roar of a beast he simply had to see for himself, had to witness.
    
    He wasn’t far from it by the sound, but then, suddenly- a sound so loud, so- unnatural it chased goosebumps over his skin, echoed through the woods and then- nothing but silence. Like all the birds had been aware of the struggle between life and death, and taken their leave to sing their songs somewhere happier.
    
    Jaskier couldn’t deny his disappointment. He’d see no battle today. But perhaps he could catch a glimpse of the Witcher and his prey.
    
    He pushed onwards then, only to gasp a few moments later.
    
    There it lay, dead on the ground; massive antlers and huge paws, the eerie third eye on its forehead.. he’d never seen the likes of it before.
    
    Fear and exhilaration warred within him until he heard a grunt; so quiet he’d almost missed it entirely, focused as he was on the dead monster.
    
    “Hello?” Quickly turning on his heel, Jaskier walked around the corpse only to come face to face with what had to be the Witcher.
    
    The man was covered in dirt, blood, and other things Jaskier preferred not to identify, lest he become queasy. Leaned with his back against a tree trunk he sat, eyes drooping and breathing harsh.
    
    “Are you alright?” He asked, only to chastise himself. “Of course not, if you were alright you wouldn’t be sitting here like this.”
    
    Moving forward, he kneeled at the Witchers side, gaze roaming over him to find any injuries. It took longer than he’d liked to admit, seeing the open wound at the mans side. Blood having darkened, sticking to his black armor and shirt.
    
    “There we go.” He hummed, brows furrowed. In a few hours, he’d wonder how he’d remained so calm. How, seeing the Witcher bleed out in front of him, hadn’t sent him into the panicked flurry everyone else would surely have expected of him. Now, it didn’t matter.
    
    “Pressure.” He whispered, as if talking to himself. “That needs pressure, one moment-”
    
    Pulling off his doublet, he quickly folded it, ignoring the fact that his mother would scold him for ruining such fine material with a mutants blood. Pressed it against as much of the wound as he could manage, hoping it would be enough.
    
    The Witcher cringed, hissed through his teeth, grabbed Jaskiers wrist and squeezed tight. He was sure the man would break his wrist if he clenched that massive fist just a bit tighter, and yet he felt no fear. Not at the black eyes, or the veins cutting across skin, pale as snow.
    
    The man was hurting. Quite possibly dying. Vulnerable.
    
    “Its alright.” The human soothed, holding very still. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”
    
    Black brows furrowed, lips curling back to reveal sharpened canines, too long for a human, too short for a wolf.
    
    “I know you’re hurting.” He continued, hoping that his sincerity showed in his voice. “I’m trying to help you. If you let go, I can-”
    
    Well, what could he do? He doubted the Witcher would live long enough for Jaskier to run back and get help, not without applying pressure to the injury. Even now, the blood was still seeping out of him, slowly soaking his doublet. His home was simply too far away.
    
    “You don’t happen to have a horse close, do you?” He asked, turning his head to examine the area around him. The Witcher gave a grunt. “I take that as a no.”
    
    Fuck.
    
    “Well. That settles it then.” With more confidence than he felt, he turned back to face the white haired man. “I’m going to help you up, and then you’ll lean on me.”
    
    It was the only option they had.
    
    If his father had been here, he’d surely be laughing. The Witcher was a mass of thick muscles, surely weighed twice what Jaskier did, and his plan was to guide the seriously hurt man back while supporting his bulking frame. Yeah, his father would have a field day with that.
    
    “If you’d let go of my wrist…” Jaskier said, glancing down at the part of himself so thoroughly enveloped in the Witchers hand. There’d be bruises there in a few hours, black and purple, he had no doubt of it. “Really now, if I’d come here to kill you, don’t you think I would’ve already done so?”
    
    That, at least, seemed to make sense to the other. He released his hold, though slowly; his arm dropped beside his bloodied form.
    
    “Right. Lets get you up.”

* * *

    
    
    Geralt had vague memories of how he’d gotten out of the woods.
    
    They included a pair of startling blue eyes and soft, brown locks he’d felt against his neck, his cheek. The scent of lilies mixed with the scent of the woods, the dirt that clung to them, and strangely enough- honey.
    
    He remembered a voice urging him to keep going, to take another step, just a few more and they’d reach their destination. That destination turning out to be a large estate, where he’d first accepted the contract.
    
    Then, the world had gone dark.
    
    When Geralt came to again, he was in a bed, resting on a surprisingly soft mattress and covered with fur finer than he’d ever had in his entire life. His side ached, his head pounded; probably still suffering the ill effect of having most of his blood on the outside of his body, rather than within. But he was alive, and awake, and that meant he had to move.
    
    Find out where he was, how he had survived. How he’d gotten into this bed far too nice for his kind. Most of all, who had been stupid enough to go out into the woods with a fiend in it, only to come across a dying Witcher; surprisingly choosing to save his life instead of killing him.
    
    Fuck. Geralt really did hate owing anything to a human, but a life debt had to be the worst debt yet.
    
    “What in the world are you doing?” Geralt snapped his head towards the door, halfways between sitting and laying, as a young man rushed into the room. “Lay down you brute, you’ll reopen your stitches!”
    
    Geralt couldn’t do anything else but blink dumbly at the boy. No one, _no one_ had spoken to him like this in- fucking decades. Vesemir not included. No human would have dared to, even injured as he was. Once in a while, Geralt would encounter some that pretended not to fear him, but the acid stink of it always gave them away. High lord or whore, they all feared him.
    
    “Down, you ox!” The brunette repeated, placing his hands on Geralts shoulders to push him back onto the pillow. “Gods, its like you’re trying to die.”
    
    The Witcher frowned, torn between snarling at the boy to take his hands off him and simply knocking him onto the ground. Instead, rather oddly, he let himself be pushed down. He’d blame it on his injury, his mind still hazy enough to allow a human to push him around.
    
    In the darkness of night, many years later, he would finally admit to himself that it was the touch itself, so casual and void of any hesitation or fear, that had convinced him to submit.
    
    “Where am I?” He asked, wincing at the burn in his throat. When was the last time he’d drank anything but the bitter potions before facing the fiend? By the scratch in his throat, it had to be days.
    
    “You, dear Witcher, are in Lettenhove.” The man hummed, obviously pleased at being obeyed. “I found you out in the woods, bleeding like a slaughtered pig, if you’ll excuse the gory imaginary. You were lucky I stumbled on you, or you’d be dead for sure.”
    
    “Didn’t ask for your help.” Geralt growled, if only to hold on to some of his dignity.
    
    “No you didn’t.” The man agreed easily. “But you needed it. Getting you here was no small feat, if I may say so myself. You’re quite heavy you know? And slippery, at the time, what with all the blood and gunk from that- thing.”
    
    “Fiend.” Geralt grunted, eyes narrowed. “Was a fiend.”
    
    “Yes, well, whatever it was, it is dead.” The man stood and walked away, only to return with a cup of water. “You must be thirsty. You haven’t woken up since you passed out on me right on the steps to the estate. Here, let me help you-”
    
    Now that, Geralt could not allow. He didn’t need any more help than he’d already received. Any more weakness, and perhaps someone would decide they could take him on after all. He couldn’t risk exposing himself further.
    
    “Don’t.” He snapped sharply, glaring at the brunette as he struggled to raise himself, just enough to drink. “Can do it myself.”
    
    The boy considered him for a bit longer, before giving a shrug, handing over cup. The Witchers hand shook as it held onto the cup, but thankfully, he was able to greedily swallow the refreshing liquid without embarrassing himself further.
    
    “I’m Jaskier, by the way.” The boy said, once Geralt had returned the cup. Truthfully, Geralt would have preferred to be offered more water instead of the name, but alas.
    
    “Geralt. Of Rivia.” He grumbled. Sleep was beginning to tug at him once more, though he stubbornly tried to refuse it.
    
    “Get some more sleep, Geralt. Things will be better tomorrow.”
    

* * *

    
    “You don’t look strong enough to have carried me that far.”
    
    “Excuse me!” Jaskier replied, quite ruffled by the Witchers statement. “I may not be as freakishly muscled as you are, Geralt, but that doesn’t mean I’m not perfectly capable of helping you.”
    
    “Didn’t say you weren’t capable of helping.” Geralt replied between bites of the food he’d been served. “Just that you don’t look strong enough to carry me a long distance.”
    
    “Well, I did. You can ask my mother, she was horrified at the state I was in.” Jaskier sniffed, picking at his own food with a fork; a utensil Geralt had refused. Apparently, Witchers preferred to eat with their hands. “Covered in dirt and blood, chemise ripped, doublet soaked in _more_ blood. I thought she was going to faint.”
    
    “Hmm.” Jaskier huffed, wondering if all Witchers were as stingy with words as Geralt. He’d been looking after the Witcher for almost a week now, and aside of his name, he’d barely gotten anything out of the man; much to his dismay.
    
    “Not to mention I was perfectly strong enough to bathe you after the healer examined and stitched you up.”
    
    The Witcher froze, glaring at him with those golden eyes, so unlike the ones he’d witnessed in the forest. Triumphant, Jaskier sipped at his wine.
    
    “Well, we couldn’t just leave you covered in bodily fluids and worse. I was the only one willing to do it, too. All the others were afraid you might come to and rip their heart out, or something equally dramatic.” He motioned with his fork towards the ceiling. “Quite silly, if you ask me. You were barely alive. How would you have had the strength to hurt them?”
    
    “Dying animals are the most dangerous kind, boy.” Geralt growled, turning back to his food.
    
    What an odd thing to say, Jaskier thought.
    
    “You’re not an animal, Geralt.” He replied easily, ignoring what he’d learned was an “unhappy” grunt. “You’re a man. Mutated, yes, but still a man.”

Geralt gave a snort. How little of the world this boy new.

How little indeed.

* * *

    
    Geralt was finally healed enough to travel again.
    
    It had taken longer than he’d wanted. A fortnight he’d been forced to rest at the estate Jaskier had brought him too.
    
    It was where he had learned that Jaskier- actually Julian- had indeed as good as carried him back. Washed him, despite being exhausted himself. That his father, the Viscount, had scolded his son thoroughly for not just leaving the Witcher to die.
    
    The maids and servants that scuttled along the hallway outside of his room had been gossiping about it all for days. How Jaskier- _Julian_ , had stood up to his father. Reasoned with the man, or at least attempted to.
    
    “ _Who knows when we will need the services of a Witcher again, father? Isn’t it better to treat the ones that take our contracts well, ensure they will keep venturing into our town, than saving the coin of a single contract and risk we never see one again?”_
    
    The argument had been good enough, it seemed, for the Viscount to give his blessing.
    
    “ _You will care for him yourself. I will not risk the lives of our servants tending to a beast. Whatever coin spent on him will come out of your allowance. And if he dies, you will bury him yourself. Have I made myself clear?”_
    
    More debt Geralt would have to pay off. It made his skin crawl to be indebted to anyone, but a noblemen? Gods, he couldn’t think of anything worse.
    
    Except, deep down, a voice whispered to him in the night.
    
    That Jaskier, Julian, whatever he was called- was different. So, so different.
    
    He treated Geralt with kindness, with respect. He poked and prodded at the Witcher, no doubt, yet never with malice. Simply curious about his life, about monsters and adventures. About the Path Geralt walked year in, year out.
    
    The boy wasn’t afraid of him, nor disgusted by him. The ease with which he touched Geralt, a hand on his shoulder, or a friendly pat on the arm- it spoke of ease and a certain sense of, ridiculously, safety.
    
    He was an idiot to trust a Witcher. An idiot to head into the woods.
    
    To treat Geralt like a friend.
    
    Witchers didn’t have friends. They didn’t have close ties to anyone but their fellow Witchers. They were ugly, mutated beasts, and seeking their company inevitably spelled death for a human.
    
    Yet every day, the boy brought him food and water, even wine sometimes; would spend hours annoying him with questions Geralt had no intention of ever answering, unafraid and persistent.
    
    It was almost admirable, the boys force of will, his confidence- if only it hadn’t been so foolhardy.
    
    So when the day of his departure finally arrive, Geralt couldn’t quite decipher how he felt.
    
    Relieved to get back on the path, that one he was sure of.
    
    Happy to no longer rely on anothers care, that was an easy one as well.
    
    But there was something else, something- deeper, darker. Something that gnawed at his mind like a starving dog a bone it had found. He just couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was.
    
    When the door swung open, he expected to see Jaskier. Blue eyes stubbornly focused on Geralt, as he demanded the Witcher take him along. He’d been dreading that very thing for days now, for he knew, he’d have to turn the foolish noble down.
    
    His life wasn’t fit for humans, after all.
    
    Instead, when he turned to face the intruder, there stood a woman instead. Well dressed, with eyes just as blue as, presumably, her sons. Long, chestnut colored hair braided and woven into complicated patters and loops, red colored lips pinched together.
    
    “Witcher.” She said, and Geralt had no doubt she was doing her best to make herself sound calm, confident. Her scent gave her away, as it always did. Fear.
    
    “My lady.” Geralt gruffed, offering a small bow of his head. He didn’t bow, not to anyone; but he could at least show her that small respect.
    
    “It seems you’ve recovered well.” She stated, quirking a brow at him. “You’re leaving, then?”
    
    “I am.”
    
    Why was she here? Jaskier had already given him the coin for his contract (and refused to take a single one back from Geralt to cover the costs of the healer and his care), no one else had come to see him. They’d all avoided him like the plague. So why had she come now?
    
    “My son, Julian.” Ah, there it was. The reason he’d been looking for. “You’ve spent quite some time with him.”
    
    “I have.” Geralt replied, hoping that the short answer would cut of any further conversation. Whatever she wanted, he had an inkling he wouldn’t want to provide it.
    
    “Then you know he plans to leave home soon. Be a traveling bard?” Geralt frowned, then nodded. Yes, Jaskier had talked at length about how he intended to travel the continent and entertain with his songs. “You know the outside world better than anyone else, Witcher. My boy has a good heart, a brave heart. But he isn’t- He wasn’t made for the darkness that lurks outside these walls.”
    
    Geralt couldn’t help but agree. The boy was brave, no doubt; brave to the point of stupidity. He was smart, but easily flustered. Fond of soft, expensive clothes, of soft beds and warm, hearty meals. All rare things for any traveler. Jaskier would have to rely on his lute andwd songs, and if they didn’t strike the common folks fancy..
    
    Geralt kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to get involved. He _wasn’t_.
    
    “My son would be eaten alive out there.” She carried on. “But if he had someone to look after him. To- help him, find his way.”
    
    “No.” Geralt growled out. It scared her, he knew it would, but it was better to scare her now and cut off any foolish idea of him agreeing to take the boy along. He had enough problems on his own, not to mention that being a Witchers companion wouldn’t do the boy any favors. It would make his chances worse.
    
    “He tended to you. He carried you here, more dead than alive.” Damn it. She was more stubborn than he’d anticipated. “He did right by you, Witcher, when no one else did. He even cared for your horse.”
    
    “He’s kind. But he’s an idiot.” He grunted, shaking his head. “Convince him to stay home, where he belongs.” Safe and warm, where he’d never get hurt, or go hungry. _Safe_.
    
    “I’m afraid that is no longer an option.” She quipped, though her voice shook. “What tales you’ve told him I do not know, but they have only enamored him more with the idea of traveling. He is going, with our blessing, or without.”
    
    Geralt wanted to say that he hadn’t told Jaskier any tales. Only offered the smallest piece of information when he simply couldn’t stand the constant questions and chattering any longer. Nothing important, or fascinating. Dull tales of a hard life.
    
    “I don’t expect you to be with him the entire time.” The woman said, speaking softly now. “I know you cannot. Your work will take you places he will not go. But if you could, Witcher; just for the first few weeks.. until he realizes what the world truly is. Perhaps, if he lives that long, he’ll come home.”
    
    Geralt turned his back on her, closed his eyes. Cursed her and her bothersome son in his mind as he remained silent.
    
    “Please, Witcher. He’s my youngest, my baby boy. Please help him. If not out of the kindness of your heart, but to repay him. Just a few weeks.”
    
    Geralt cursed, out loud this time. Huffed a growl.
    
    “A fortnight, and my debt is paid.”

* * *

    
    Decades later, Geralt would think back to the time they’d met. How annoyed he’d been, how much he’d resented Jaskier, and everything the young man stood for. How often he’d wished to be rid of him during those first two weeks.
    
    The very same man that gave a snuffle against his chest, fast asleep curled against Geralts side. Still smelling of lilies and honey, mixed with Geralts own scent. He couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to those brown locks, now streaked with gray strands here and there.
    
    He’d never imagined things would work out this way. Jaskier the boy had become Jaskier the man. His closest friend. His lover. His little songbird.
    
    The man he loved.


End file.
